


i have been one acquainted with the night

by wendythewang



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, just so y'all know this is like. weirdly morbid, title from the frost poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 05:50:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendythewang/pseuds/wendythewang
Summary: Let's think about Gotham, about myths, about beginnings, ends, and the nights in-between.Or, the enduring legend of Gotham's protectors, in the time of the first Robin.





	i have been one acquainted with the night

**Author's Note:**

> so... does anyone else think that 9 yr old robin must have been Terrifying to the criminals of gotham?

They are the same, but they are also different, and he may be the first of a generation of young vigilantes, but he is not the reason, only the catalyst.

They take up arms with varying rationales. Sometimes it comes naturally. Sometimes, there’s the turning point.

And his, right there, painting the ground with blood. It’s not pretty, not storybook. It’s Gotham being Gotham, even to those who are just passing by, who haven’t seen enough scarring to know.

Bruce Wayne– Batman loves Gotham City. Batman is _devoted_ to her.

Robin has learned devotion as well, but he knows it’s only a temporary wardship. Even if she does keep him, he’ll only ever be adopted, second-best.

* * *

And, sometimes, nothing is real except the night.

Darkness embraces the city. enshrouding silhouettes of spires and skyscrapers. But, down here, enclosed by brick walls in some dirty, crumbling alleyway, this is where the night lives, where it shakes and screams to be known. Which is, of course, a pointless endeavour; anyone who will hear those guttural cries already knows it well.

He is crouched in this aforementioned alleyway like some kind of feral creature, short-of-breath, eyes downcast. He is aware of every sound here, every movement and every shatter of a bottle on the asphalt. These thugs, really– _inky, blinky, bob, three blind mice_ – they’re nothing, disarmed and gunless, cowering in the presence of a shade. Cornered by a little bird.

Robin smiles. Lifts his chin, lets them see. Resist the urge to spit out the blood and keep grinning. “Bit off a little more than you could chew, huh?”

“Fuck off, little brat!” Guy’s voice shakes. Not professional, not very professional at all. “Don’t come any closer!”

Red drips from his teeth which are slick with blood, but under this light? Under the cold and indifferent regard of streetlamps and neon? It’s not what it looks like, just a drop of rain–

He shifts his feet in place. His knee throbs wetly, warm and there is a bruise forming on his side. He took a hit to the head earlier that night, trying to cover Batman. Now they’re separated, chasing after two contingents of the same gang, and, somewhere between knockout twelve and sixteen, someone got lucky, tore off his utility belt. He has no shields left, just his fists.

Thugs, untrained, out for a quick buck. Some of them got into a type of extended family that they could never leave, and none of them stand a chance.

The air stills, and he _moves_.

It never ceases to delight him, really, how, even bleeding, he can make grown men frozen with fear. Sweeps a leg underneath theirs, fingers precise for _pressure point pressure point pressure_ . If he’s honest, he might even admit to himself that he goes a little _heady_ with it, because who wouldn’t? If helplessness is the root of all fear, then power, this power over the kind of men who beat, who kill, without regret or penitence– It doesn’t matter how young he is, because he can get drunk on _this_.

And then it’s quiet again, just the background hum of city and a steady drip drip _drip._

He stumbles forward, just a little. Picks up his utility belt ( _never leave home without it_ ). Knife slash on the thigh, very shallow, only the slightest bit dis-concerting, and really he’s quite _turbed_.

The night receives him again, its child, into a gaping maw.

* * *

There is a strong sense of cognitive dissonance, if one considers it carefully, in the minds of Gotham’s downtrodden, criminal, or both, scraping away their lives in the belly of the beast, _I have been one acquainted with the night_ . Batman and Robin are public figures, think Justice League press conferences or televised rescues or up on the rooftop with the Commish. But Batman and Robin are also shadows, flitting in and out of existence, gnawing at the heels of the hunters, turning them into prey. Batman is relentless, a tower of shadow who seems to feel no bullets or knives or fists, delivers a swift hand of retribution (though, sometimes, there is no restitution, can never be, not for _death_ –) like _blitz und donner_ , like a demon, the Devil, and _if we get our hands on the motherfucker who summoned that avenging demon, who made the deal with the devil–_ which was, of course, a humble man in Crime Alley, with a trigger finger, _I have a gun and I’m not afraid to use it_ , never found, living out his life just as poor, just as chilled to the bone as before. The pearls only lasted so long.

But if Batman is the devil, then Robin is his servant, a wraith in child’s form, like a mockery, a reproach. Robin pays no levy to gravity, soars without wings, and treats Gotham like a playground.

Please, Gotham, how many times have you seen the kid carted back to the shadows bleeding?

How many times has he returned?

How many times has he plunged off a rooftop, disappeared into the chasms between buildings, leaving nothing but a trail of echoing laughter?

The R-cycle– yes, _no one calls it that_ – revs up in before him and he leans on to the handlebars. Batman had a greater contingent of mobsters after him. If he’s quick, he’ll catch them unawares with a cackle and a smoke pellet, throw them into even more of a disarray.

He breathes shakily, drinking in the cool, smoky city. Still banking on an adrenaline rush. Still banking on the legend of the Dark Knight and his demented little shadow. Still banking on phobos and deimos, on the darkness to be a friend.

 _There will be sleeping enough in the grave_.

* * *

That’s why it’s shocking, the first time, on a mission in Star City, someone says it. More of a mocking jeer than anything, but still:  “Go easy on him, he’s just a kid, doesn’t even look like he’s out of puberty.” Buzzcut and prison tattoos, a bulky guy with his finger twitching on the trigger.

He’s tied to a chair at that particular moment, embarrassingly reliving a boy-hostage role that he thought was regulated to grade one to two of kiddie hero college, ages nine to eleven, so, honestly, any kind of underestimation wouldn’t be remiss. Robin’s loosening the ropes holding him to the chair, having worked open the lock on the cuffs earlier, and any kind of distraction from getting the tar beaten out of him in the meantime would be _rather nice_ . He wonders where his team is, if they’re in a similar predicament ( _and this is probably why we shouldn’t go on missions without M’gann_ ), but he’ll find out soon, because, soon, he’ll be _out_ of this predicament and back to smashing heads together.

Or kicking them in the shins. Don’t judge him. He doesn’t have the advantage of muscle. Whatever works, works.

 _Just a kid_ . That’s one he hasn’t heard in a long while. They all said it at first, the enchanting murderers and lovely thieves Gotham could dredge up, but that changed as soon as Robin became a legend, a myth. It might’ve been an advantage, levelled the playing field against the enemies who _would_ hesitate to kill a child, but it didn’t do much in the fights that really mattered. Joker and Two-Face didn’t _have_ moral limitations, and it was a far greater perk for the thugs to scatter at a disembodied cackle than for the one-out-of-ten semi-moral murderers to think, _hey, it might be slightly worse if my victim is, like, twelve._ Even in Gotham, there are criminals who wouldn’t stoop to hurting a child, but Robin isn’t a child, he’s their bogeyman (one-of-two, one-of-two, close enough).

Throw him a bone. He’s from the _circus._ He knows how to build up a goddamn image.

“If he’s such a fucking kid, then he shouldn’t be playing dress-up, should he?” Bleach-blond hair with brown showing at the roots. This one’s leaner than the other guard, but he seems like the alpha male here. Likes to push his weight around. Inferiority complex, much? He also did the ropes, which aren’t as shabby as hired muscle usually achieve, but Blondie seemed to have forgotten (just another twist, shove, hopefully won’t have to dislocate his right wrist this time) that Robin is an _acro-_ bat. Flexible is part of the job description.

Just two more minutes…  he can’t show his cards. “What– what are you going to do to me?” He lets the last few words waver, just a little, thinking of child hostages and how many times he’s watched, waiting in the rafters.

Buzzcut frowns. “Where does the big bad bat get off, sending a fucking kid to do his dirty work?” He mutters. “Hey, kid, we won’t hurt you if cooperate, alright? Just tell us where your friends are.” In the other side of the labs by now, hopefully, unless they’re really screwing things up.

“Batman told me not to talk to criminals.” Oh, god, if they believe he’s serious there, sounding like a fucking preschooler, that’d be _gold._

“Yeah, well, if you don’t, you’ll be forcing our hand.”

Blondie snorts. “He’s a fucking child. Kick him around a little and he’ll be screaming for his mommy.”

“It’s not right.”

Blondie steps into Buzzcut’s space. Ooh, dominance assertion. So hardcore, so _original_. “Well maybe he should’ve thought of that before he decided to play in the big leagues.”

The ropes loosen. Robin’s wrists tingle a bit. “Yeah,” he laughs. “You really should’ve thought.”

He leaps up from the chair, disarming Blondie first. They didn’t even bother to tie his feet to the chair. One hit and a well-placed capoeira hit, and he’s out. Buzzcut’s easy, a hard, trained hand at the fight but still nervously fumbling with the safety on his gun. Two guards. _Two_ guards. Robin knows he looks wimpy down on the ground without his cape flapping or favours from his utility belt, but it was just a _little_ bit insulting.

When the second guard goes down, it’s easy, almost habitual, to remove the bullets and toss the guns off to the side. The room is quiet now, without Thing One and Thing Two’s commentary. Just the sound of the clock which– who goes for an analog clock when they’re running a _laboratory_ ? He picked up his utility belt and commlink, stashed in the corner. The belt’s a bit screwed up, and one of the pockets is wet. Maybe the shark-repellant’s leaking. Ha _ha._

Check-in time: “Hey, team. How’s everyone doing?”

“ _Ohmygod_ , Rob, where did you _go_?” Wally seems fine.

“Got in a bit of a pickle trying to access their computers.” The computers are in the corner where the thugs tossed his gear. Everything’s going _fine_. “I’ll get the data and get out.” He pulls up the security sensors in the lab. Four nice red dots south of here.

“We would appreciate some back-up, Robin.” Kal’s voice just seems a little bit strained. “What is your ETA?”

“Five minutes. You guys in the south wing?”

“Affirmative.”

“See you then, Supreme Leader!”

He got lucky this time. He can’t rely on _just a kid_ , he can’t ever hope for that safety net.

* * *

It’s after a rather _public_ (for a secret Justice League mountain base, anyways. Everything is relative once you pick up a mask and tights.) showcase of Batman shutting down Green Lantern that Wally asks the question.

“Dude, like, other than Batman being _Batman_ , what’s he got against metas in Gotham?” M'gann and Kaldur look up with curiosity, though Conner doesn't really seem to be paying Wally any mind. 

 Robin sighs, giving his grappling gun a final check-over. “You should know by now, KF. Not that you or Barry really follow the rule.”

“Apologies if this is a redundant question, but I too am curious about Batman’s logic. It would be helpful to know. Your mentor does not always explain his reasoning.” Kaldur's curiosity makes sense, but it still frustrates Robin that he has to  _explain_. 

“Do you guys know anything about Gotham?” Robin wasn’t expecting _Artemis_ to speak up, but he should have. How far away is her apartment from places like Crime Alley, really? How much has she seen? (And how often has she thought that she would be the hunted one, the prey of the Bat?) Artemis scowls a little at the Team’s confused stares. “Come on. Batman is a _legend_ in Gotham. Inviting some bigshot leaguers to help with a break-out would defeat the point of Batman being all mysterious and shit.”

“Got it in one, Artemis. Showing that we need help from outsiders would really damage our ability to keep Gotham under control.” Robin pauses, smirks. “Though, for someone who lives in Star City…”

 He’s through the zeta-beam before Artemis can try to splutter out an explanation. After all, Gotham waits, biting off a little bit more of him every day. 

* * *

And, sometimes, he terrifies himself. Who is this kid, Dick Grayson asks, thinking of softness and kind hearts, open wide, that snorts at the sight of blood and laughs off the sound the breaking bones? How many of Gotham's worst see him in their nightmares, the little Robin with shining teeth? How many of Gotham's innocent, who knows that it's a choice between starvation and a cold cell (juvie, group homes, been there done that, Dick thinks, but Robin shouldn't. Robin is _untouchable_ )? 

And, sometimes, he wonders what would happen if the legends were to disappear one day, prove themselves irrefutably human. Would they still whisper of Batman and Robin? Would it be like the once and future king, a Dark Knight ready to rise again and inflict order upon the city of chaos and night? 

And, sometimes, swinging above the city, watching lights flicker in and out of existence, Robin thinks, _oh, this is the place where I am going to die._


End file.
